


Breaking Through Instinct

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Military, Modern Spies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7552138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years later that risk was now a solid bet and she wore his mother’s ring on her left hand. The dark pearl caught the light when her hands went up and she didn’t bother warning him - she simply jumped. He dropped his duffel bag and caught her. Gaby weighed no more than his bag. She collided with his front, her arms wrapping around his neck, fingers carding through his very short blonde hair, dragging him in.</p><p>Modern AU - Illya returns from the war and begins doubting the entire world he's built for himself both inside and outside of the battlefield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The plane lands finally, too many delays have kept him away. He’s been in the air too long, but when the plane lands, he takes his time getting out of his seat, enjoying the feeling of solid ground beneath his boots. His second tour ends and his bones ache, fatigue is real it bleeds into muscles making him move slower than usual through the airport. The cold artificial air from the AC is welcoming and it makes his lips turn up into a bit of a relieved smile. He’s thankful to be out of the desert air, out of the desert sun. He’s dressed in a soft desert sand color, camouflage covers him through and through with heavy boots on, tracking desert sand everywhere with him. There are at least twelve others behind him, all dressed the same, all with their tired walks and soft murmurs of home. The airport is filled with people, most not even bothering to look at him or his crew and that’s fine with him as he inhales the smooth scent of freshly brewed coffee from one of the hundreds of coffee kiosks that line the walls. All of it is welcome to him, he soaks it in. Eight months overseas has taught him to be thankful with every step he takes in the crowded airport. He makes it down to the massive escalators, legs carrying him to the baggage claim where more than just his luggage sits. 

She’s standing near his luggage carousel, waiting for the flight’s bags to catch up with their passengers, the conveyor belt is empty but she’s staring at it anyways, cell phone in hand and pressed to her ear. She’s chatting animatedly with someone, thick German words permeate the air and she’s all Illya can hear in the crowd. He doesn’t speak much German but he knows she’s talking to her Uncle when she drops his name and then turns on her heel, brown hair falling over her shoulder with a soft ponytail and bangs freshly cut across her forehead. The moment she sees him the phone call is forgotten and she’s running to him. Her heels echo louder than the gunshots he hears in his nightmares. She charges for him, moving out of the sea of people, bobbing up and down, smile blooming across her face. Her serious conversation with her Uncle is long forgotten as she crosses to him, shouting his name.

Illya met Gaby two years ago, in passing at the Italian airport. She ended up on his plane, headed back to London. They sat near one another with a stranger in the middle and talked over the stranger for the rest of the flight. He opted to change his orders the next day, cancelling his flight to Moscow to stay in London. It was a risk, but the woman running for him was worth it. Two years later the risk was now a solid bet and she wore his mother’s ring on her left hand. The dark pearl caught the light when her hands went up and she didn’t bother warning him -- simply jumped. He dropped his duffle bag and caught her. Gaby weighed no more than his bag. She collided with his front, her arms wrapping around his neck, fingers carding through his very short blonde hair, dragging him in. She didn’t kiss him yet though, she held off on that reunion. Instead she pressed her cheek to his scratchy one, marveling at the dark beard that hadn’t been cut in his last month of duty. He buried himself in the crook of her neck, soaking in the scent of expensive perfume and something metallic that was all Gaby. She was after all an engineer for a privately owned company in London. He never pried much on her job, just marveled at the way her eyes sparkled when expensive cars rolled through, or commented on her dirty fingernails when she came home from work, covered in thick motor oil. Illya stayed right there, the conveyor belt started up but he kept his eyes closed, head down. He was holding the only thing that mattered to him in that moment, the small German woman clinging to him like a lifeline. He felt her sniffle and then smiled while turning his head over. He attacked her cheek first. A hard kiss was planted there before she turned her head over and kissed him. Her fingers moved from his short hair to his prickly cheeks, holding him still as she kissed him. 

She tasted like home, coffee and sweetener with something citrus like underneath it all. He kissed her until his lungs burned, until her legs shook softly and then he broke free. His forehead crashed against her own and he smiled, laughed even as he slowly released her. She settled back down on the airport floor and pulled away from him just long enough to see several other soldiers dressed just like him, smirking approvingly at the two of them tangled together. 

Gaby flushed a dark red and cleared her throat while Illya’s hand mapped out the side of her waist, his fingers dug into her lightly, marveling at the softness of her dress and the thin frame beneath it. He didn’t pay his comrades any attention, he stayed rooted to the spot with Gaby pressed into his side. All those long days in the hot desert paid off, she stood coolly next to him, pressing into his chest with her cheek laying on his rank-patch. 

“Peril you must introduce us,” A voice called out from the band of soldiers and Gaby turned her head over, confusion etched across her face for a moment as she repeated the nickname dropped for him. Illya simply shook his head, pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and moved away, he kept his hand outstretched against her, not quite wanting to let go as he moved for one of the bags across the belt, dragging it up by his number and last name. 

He slung it over his shoulder and turned back to Gaby, who was walking away from him, stretching her own hand out to the soldiers that had come off the flight with him. She introduced herself to each one, learning their names and occasionally asking to be told embarrassing stories at later dates, before thanking each and every one of them for keeping her Russian safe. She made her way through them all, giving half-hugs and handshakes before moving to one with dark hair and bright blue eyes, hair a tad-too long for her liking and smile a bit too wide.

“So you’re the one with the nickname,” Gaby raised her index finger up and the man took her finger, then the rest of her fingers in his palm and gently pulled her hand up. It was like something out of a movie the way he held her hand carefully in his own and then the feeling of his lips ghosting over her knuckles and then along the back of her hand.

“Guilty,” His American accent stunned her for a moment, she had been expecting another Russian comrade with Illya’s crew, but this man was positively red, white, and blue. His patch on his gear was the same as Illya’s though, with not as many stars cresting over the tops of the round patch. Illya muttered something of him drooling on his fiance and the man let go of her fingers, “My name is Napoleon Solo.”

Gaby almost snorted out a laugh, containing herself as she moved her hand up to her lips, “Is that your real name?” 

He looked offended and then glanced over her head to her fiance who was looking way too smug for his liking. Solo wrinkled his nose and Illya laughed low enough that Gaby could feel the vibrations from his chest against her shoulder. She shook her head and Illya moved his hand over the front of her, hooking his arm under her neck and pulling her into him for a moment. The world melted away when she swung her head up and he kissed her until she pulled away, reaching up to tug at the edge of his beard, “Yes, his name is Napoleon and he is staying in London for a bit. I thought he could rent out your old flat to him.” Illya’s accent washes over her and she closes her eyes, soaking it in because it’s definitely something she missed.

After a moment or so she nods to him, “Yes, fine but it can’t be for long. We’re supposed to sell it before the wedding,” Gaby reminds her fiance raising her hand up and wiggling her finger in front of his face as if he’s somehow forgotten her in all those months away. He nods to her, pressing his lips to the tip of her finger, not quite kissing her, not giving the world another public display of affection. 

“I have not forgotten. Solo this is my little mechanic, I still believe she runs a chop shop though. No engineer can afford her expensive taste in cars.” He mutters against her fingers playfully before pulling away from her and standing up straight. He’s got military style habits bred into him, spine straight and head turned upwards, he pulls both of his bags over his arm, not making Gaby carry a thing as they all depart from the airport, Solo promising to catch a cab to the flat as they leave the bustling airport. Illya has spent eight months in the sun, so when he steps outside he is a little relieved that the sky is a thousand and one shades of grey and the ground is wet beneath his feet. 

It’s thankfully not raining, but the clouds promise more rain and he watches in amusement as Gaby moves to grab one of his over-stuffed duffel bags to stuff into the tiny trunk of her little black sports car. The bag weighs more than her, but she manages to swat his hand away, wrapping both hands around the small handle of the bag she managed to drag it to the edge of the curb before he stepped in and picked it up by the other end, easily holding it over her head. She rolled her dark eyes to him and tried to hide her smile as he made everything fit in the small trunk before moving his way to the driver’s side. He opened the door and didn’t move in just yet, moving his hand forward in a slight flourish.

“My woman drives,” He mused as she leaned back against the trunk of the car for a moment, watching him with a smile pulling at her lips. He wasn’t allowed to drive her car and even when she let him, Gaby was a terrible passenger. She was meant to be a driver, never a rider. When she didn’t move right away he quickly tacked on, “I have missed you quite much, but if you take much longer I will show this whole airport how much I have missed you.” 

His grin is all mischievous and Gaby laughs nodding as she pushes herself away from the trunk of the car and moves to the open door. She stands on the tips of her toes, lips inches from his own and before Illya can swoop in and steal a kiss, Gaby halts him with a few words. 

“Shave first.” She muses and he reaches up, scratching at the dark beard for a moment.

“You do not like this?” He asks playfully leaning in and letting his cheek brush against hers over and over until she squirms away and falls into the driver’s seat, pulling the chair up a little closer to the steering wheel when he closes the door for her. 

The drive home is the longest drive of Illya’s life, it’s somehow longer than the four flights from the desert to the gloomy streets of London. Traffic is a nightmare, red lights are illuminating off of everything and everyone, even the puddles in the street are reflecting the brake lights and Gaby growls in frustration as she downshifts every few feet. She lifts her hand occasionally rubbing at her wrist and then takes the wheel again, glancing over at him only briefly before her phone buzzes. The bluetooth in the car chimes and before Illya can read the GPS screen in the middle of the car, Gaby flicks decline on the touch screen and shrugs her shoulders to him, “It’s work,” She murmurs softly and he nods to her, understanding completely just how much she’s needed. He knows what it’s like to have a job that requires every ounce of his free will, one that demands all of his hard work and constant attention. 

“You can answer it,” He says when the phone chirps again and Gaby hits the decline button once more before flipping her phone on silent and dropping the slender piece of technology into her purse wedged between their seats.

“No,” She breathes out the soft little huff as she glances over at him between the red lights, lips curving up. “I have informed everyone in the garage that I was not to be bothered.” It was mostly true, she had informed her employers of his return to London, she even took an extra day off to spend with him. Illya took her words and his lips twisted up into one of his rare smiles. This was the most she had seen him smile in such a long time she was soaking it up greedily. Sometime throughout their touch and go drive, Illya’s hand had found hers, his fingers wrapped around her wrist and his thumb stroked the soft skin there, feeling her pulse and laying his head back in the seat. His blue eyes closed and he held tight to her. Eventually his fingers lightened and she wondered vaguely if her super soldier was sleeping or just resting, she had never really seen him sleep. 

Sure he had slept with her, next to her in the same bed with his eyes closed, but he was such a delicate sleeper she never knew if he truly slept or lived in an endless cycle of short-lived naps. His thumb keeps up it’s soft stroking until his breathing evens out and she carefully shifts into the next gear, listening to the soft hum of the motor and feeling the silent vibrating of her phone in her pocket. It takes her a little under half an hour to get home and her heart is pounding in her chest when she wakes up Illya, carefully taking her hand from his. They don’t make it very far into the town house before pieces of camouflage hit the floor. They leave his bags in the car and Gaby barely gets the door closed before his hands are on her hips, mapping out the shape of her under her dress. He’s warm and tan, not to mention his hands are calloused, scraping over the fabric of her dress and pushing it up. He takes his time.

He exaggerates every movement against her skin, taking what feels like hours to remove her coat and dress, he drags her stockings down with careful hands. His palm smooths around her thighs and he nudges her legs apart, pushing her against the door of their shared townhouse. Gaby’s head falls back against the white painted door and her lips part with a silent cry as his beard scratches at the inside of her thighs and he bites the soft flesh there before pressing soothing kisses to the spot. She moves her hands down to his shaved hair and drags her palms over the back of his head, urging him onwards as he drags his tongue over the front of her underwear and the world goes a little blurry for Gaby. She sucks in a sharp breath and hooks a leg over her soldier’s shoulder. Illya holds her up, keeps her pinned against the door with his hands on her hips, holding the edge of her dress up. He’s rusty, mouth clumsy, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm. 

They move slowly but surely throughout the townhouse, losing pieces of clothing here and there. 

Kisses get desperate and sloppy. 

Breathing becomes labored and harder, Gaby shouts until her voice cracks. Illya keeps going, he holds her closer, drags her down over him and loses himself in the feel of her. He gives himself to her until his muscles give out, until he’s saying her name like a prayer and collapses on the bed. 

They end up in their shared master bedroom with the blankets pooling around them and Gaby’s head on his chest. She’s spread over him possessively, brown hair fanning out over his chest, with her fingers dragging along the ridges of new scars. He has so many new ones, they spread from one side of his chest down to the edge of his waist. She traces them carefully, fingertip following the raised skin with a slow purpose. He shifts under her attention, muscles twitching and before she can get to another new scar, his hand finds hers. He halts her fingers and pulls them up to his mouth and kisses her fingers. He kisses the the ring on her finger and she smiles lazily. 

Russian endearments leave his lips before he yawns. Illya closes his eyes once more and Gaby lays there quietly in his hold, she lays there until his heartbeat evens out and his breathing is almost deep. He’s exhausted and war has worn in on his muscles. When the soft snore rips through the room, Gaby extricates herself from him. She’s careful to slip out of his hold and frees herself from the covers. Padding naked to the bathroom she stops along the way, picking up her coat from the floor and locking herself in the bathroom. She turns on the water and locks the door before pushing the phone up to her ear, it rings three times before a voice answers.

She says all the right things.

Answers the right questions to the voice on the phone. It’s a heavy British accent that greets her, asks her how the weather is, to which she answers ‘not sunny enough’ and when asked for the next train she gives the time for Illya’s flight before tacking on a few more details. 

“He’s back,” She murmurs softly into the phone and glances up, catching herself in the mirror that is quickly fogging up. Her naked skin is red in places from Illya’s attention and she admires it with a soft hum before the voice comes back over the phone. She nods to no one in particular, “Understood.”


	2. Chapter 2

He feels when Gaby slips from the bed, but doesn’t get up. Exhaustion has swallowed him hold and he is used to her insomnia like habits, never staying still in bed for more than a few short hours at a time. So when he hears the shower start up, he simply buries his face in her pillow and inhales softly. He enjoys the soft sheets wrapping around him. It’s a big change from the heavy, scratchy canvas that he became accustomed to. The pillow is a simple luxury he doesn’t let go as he wraps one large arm around it, comforting himself on the soft bed, so different from the hard ground. Sometime between the small woman leaving him and the humming noise of the shower, he slips back asleep. Sleep is not easy. It’s a dark clawing sensation that pulls him under, drowns him. He jerks against the pillow, he grinds his teeth. He fights it off, he fights off the sounds that echo in his dreams, and just like that he’s trudging through piles of sand. The sound of gunfire is loud, real even as someone fires over his head. His boots are filling with sand, sweat slips down the side of his face and all he can feel is the heat of fire as someone attacks his team. 

The screams are louder than the gunfire.

He doesn’t wake up until the smell of burning toast fills the townhouse, accompanied by the scent of strong coffee and the sound of a pan clanging against the counter top pulls him to his senses. He rolls over in the messy bed, unsure of when she came back to bed or if she had even come back at all. The Russian man slides out of the covers, pulling his pair of boxers back up his hips before making his way down to the kitchen. Illya finds Gaby fully dressed in oil stained coveralls, hair pulled back lazily against the back of her neck, the toaster had a small plume of smoke coming out of the top of it and he reached past her to pop the ruined bread out. She hummed softly against the rim of her coffee cup, dragging her attention to the arm around her before offering up her coffee cup.

Illya took her cup and swallowed down some of the dark liquid before making a face, “Is too sweet.” He murmurs sleepily, leaning down and letting his lips graze the edge of her temple, not quite kissing her as he sets the mug down and reaches for his own and stepping away from her. 

“You were talking in your sleep last night,” Gaby doesn’t say good morning. She skips right to what she wants to talk about. Cutting her gaze up from her mug she taps her fingers along the edge of the porcelain cup and purses her lips. She doesn’t mention the screaming or the way his hands clenched so tightly around the pillow she was worried they would wake up in covered in goose feathers. He visibly stiffens at her words, his fingers twitching, index finger tapping in a slow motion. His brows furrow and he shakes his head.

“Is nothing,” He dismisses her curious look, stepping away from her now and skipping over the burned toast. His fingers find a small orange in the basket of fruit on the island in the middle of the old kitchen, “Not used to a good bed is all.” 

Gaby doesn’t accept his statement, but she doesn’t press him on it anymore. Instead she swallows down a bit more coffee before swiping her thumb across her phone, tapping in her pass code before looking across the island to her fiance. He’s peeling the orange carefully with the tip of his thumbnail, not meeting her gaze. Instead he rolls the orange over in his palm, offering her a slice of the freshly peeled fruit, which she takes and holds on her tongue while he looks over her outfit, “I thought you took time off today. Are you leaving me for work?” 

Her phone chimes.

She tries not to be distracted by the technology, and holds her tongue not wanting to fire back that he leaves her for months at a time. Instead she chews on the orange slice before tapping on her messages, texting a reply before she swallows, “I’m just going in for a few hours. I’ll be back before lunch.” 

The clock on the stove reads six-thirty and while Gaby is not a morning person, she has gotten better with Illya’s early rising schedule. Her phone chimes once more and he raises an eyebrow to her but she ignores it as she pockets the phone and reaches up, pushing her bangs aside for a moment as she moves around the edge of the island and presses a kiss to his cheek, “Besides, this gives you time to shave this creature living on your face.” She smiles as he shakes his head and he catches her wrist before she can leave. 

His fingers are gentle with her, giving her the chance to pull away if she wanted to. She doesn’t pull away and he hauls her up closer to him, forehead pressing low over hers. Gaby stands a whole foot shorter than him and constantly strains to reach him so he compromises for her and only her. His nose brushes hers but she doesn’t lean up and kiss him. She stands there, slowly breathing in his presence as he speaks quietly in his mother tongue, her name drips from his lips and she closes her eyes, “I will sleep better soon.” He promises her even though they both know he can’t promise such a thing. 

“Illya,” She murmurs his name, soft German accent permeating the air. Something in his chest breaks, he wonders vaguely if she’s upset over the nightmares or their rushed reunion the night before, eight months away has taken away some of his patience in bed. 

“Gaby,” He answers her with her own name, licking over his bottom lip as he watches her drag her brown eyes up from his mouth to meet his gaze. They’re alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the smell of burning breakfast and the early morning grey light that’s starting to break through the curtains. She reaches up and touches his cheeks. Her palms slide over the rough patches of his beard, calloused fingers settling along his jaw. She is not soft like most women. Gaby is hard edges and tough skin, if he’s only allowed one word to describe her, it’s strong. 

“I will be back before lunch, why don’t you go visit your friend. Make sure he got in alright.” She speaks softly against his mouth, patting his cheek for a moment before she moves to pull away from him. He stops her though, dragging a hand down the column of her throat and pulling her up by the back of the neck, crushing his lips against hers. It’s a desperate kiss, an apology for the nightmares, an apology for the morning air around them that is thick with a sort of tension that always settles when he returns from missions. She makes a small noise against his mouth, but melts into him anyways. Her fingers move down to his bare chest and she grips at the muscles there, dragging her fingers lower, following the scars that litter him like a work of a modern art. She enjoys the way they jump and twitch against her touch and she feels him groan against the kiss before she pulls away from him. Gaby breaks the kiss but she doesn’t let go of him just yet. Her fingers keep slipping up his sides and she grasps onto his biceps, only when he winces she pulls away. Her gaze drags over his left arm. His upper arm is bruised deep purple and black, just above his only tattoo - a Cyrillic salute to his rank. Confusion crosses her face and she tilts her head over for a moment, eyeing the wound before he pulls away from her grasp and rolls his shoulders as if he can will it away like a magic trick, “Illya, what is that?” She asks carefully.

“Is nothing,” He waves her off, “Classified mission. You’re going to be late for work.” 

Her mouth opens to reply but she soaks in his words and nods carefully closing her lips, “Do you want me to leave you the car?” She asks but he shakes his head, he prefers to walk and she thinks the fresh air will be good for him as she leans up and pecks his cheek before leaving him there. Her phone begins a little jingle as she locks the door behind her and Illya slumps down against the island, elbows holding him up for a moment as his head falls into his hands. He could go back to bed, but that would be counterproductive. He rolls his shoulders once more and ignores the dull throb in his upper arm before wondering just who was talking to his fiance so early in the morning. He pushes any wave of possible jealousy aside, Gaby is not that type of woman. Illya instead settles on it being her work and moves himself up, eating the rest of the forgotten orange before going to shower. 

Even with taking his time, working out and showering, the clock has barely moved at all. It’s just barely eight in the morning and he can’t seem to sit still. The townhouse is too clean to clean, but he takes his time walking around it, taking in all the little changes Gaby has made. They bought the townhouse before his first tour overseas. They had been dating for four months and a handful of days, Gaby opted to keep her flat and he gave up his military housing suite for the chance to move in together. It was an older townhouse made in the sixties during the time of war. Gaby of course had modernized pieces of it. They had a television that rarely got turned on a new stereo system that always seemed to be on a low setting, speakers singing out old tunes on the lowest volumes possible. She had photos lining the fireplace mantle, all of her and him. He had taken most of them. Being the one with long arms he was able to take the best photos of her tucked under his chin, grinning widely at the camera. He smiled lazily, dragging his gaze from one photo frame to the next. There was an old photo in the middle of his parents, then one next to it of his mother after his father was arrested for high financial crimes. He later died in prison but the shame still ate at Illya every time his mother phoned him.

There were no photos of Gaby’s parents. Just an older squared off photo pushed into the small frame of a young girl sitting on the knee of an older man, he never asked just assumed that was Gaby and her father, the man she never mentioned. In fact the only family he can ever recall her mentioning is her Uncle Rudi who still lived somewhere in Italy. He carried on around the small house, admiring the new clean paint job she had done probably a few months ago and stepping softly off of the beautiful hardwood floor onto the new rug. The rug covered most of their living room, a soft clean mix of dark blue lines that offset the navy blue accents she had around the room. He made a mental note to compliment her on all the new changes she had made in the decor and stepped further into the room listening to the wood creaking under his weight as he passed over the corner of the rug. He made another mental note to do some reconditioning on the floor during his downtime before he left the living room in search of a coat and his boots.

\-------------

The garage was located in the heart of the city, small and attached to a rather larger building on the backside, like everything else in London it was too close to neighboring buildings, making itself comfortable in the small nook. Gaby parked her car in the small strip of street next to the building and slid out, boots echoing on the blacktop road as she moved her way around and walked her way inside the open garage door where the sound of metal grinding on metal was excruciatingly loud. The thick smell of oil and gas assaulted her senses but she kept her head straight, inhaling the fumes like she did as a child in her foster father’s garage. She moved past the first few rows of parked cars, all of them with the hoods up and went right through the employee’s only door to the left. She stepped into a tiny office with too many filing cabinets. Filthy photos of provocative women hung along the walls along with pinned up newspaper articles and everything inbetween. The office was a mess of paperwork and old tools. Gaby stepped over all if it and went right through to the door wedged between two filing cabinets, closing it tightly behind her before stepping through another small hallway and pausing to press her hand over a silver door handle. A small black pad illuminated on the door with a silvery blue-halo of numbers under her fingers. With careful precision she typed in four digits and a small hum echoed into the small hallway before the tell-tale sound of a lock clicking hit her ears and she stepped through the door.

When the door locked behind her she reached up and tugged on the zipper to her oil-stained jumpsuit, pulling it down and stepping out of it. She moved through the hallway, hanging up her coverall and kicking out of her boots, replacing them with sensible heels that were the same color black as her knitted sweater. From there she moved on, head held high, cell phone tucked under her arm while her hand dug down into the pocket of her dress pulling out a small headpiece to place on her left ear. She hit the power button and a little blue light signaled on just as she swiped her first ID badge into the next set of glass doors, breaking free from the little hallway and into a massive room filled with the chatter of keyboards and GPS beacons chiming. Gaby sucked in a sharp breath, smoothed her hands over her dress and went to work.

\-------------

Illya turned his head back and laughed. It vibrated in his chest and echoed off of the pale walls of Gaby’s old flat now occupied by his American comrade. He had walked from their townhouse to the flat, it was a little over a mile but, he enjoyed the chance to stretch his legs and take in the sights of the city he had missed so much. His coat had caught most of the rain, as did the little black umbrella hanging up next to it, but now he was warm, sitting on the small couch in the living room with the fire going. Napoleon wasn’t used to the cool temperatures of London.

In fact he wasn’t used to much at all, including the tea, but he had supposedly managed the night before quite well. When Illya had first arrived a young Londoner had been leaving, her hair still in a messy state of bed-head and second day make-up smearing across her cheeks. He had only nodded to the woman in passing before pinning a fixed look on Solo. 

“Should I remind you, you’re borrowing my fiance’s bed.” Illya had said after his knuckles had played a lazy song on the door. Solo had put on his best smile, oozing charm and charisma even in the early hours of the morning and crossed his arms as he let Illya inside.

“Would it help any if I say we didn’t make it to the bed?” 

Illya tried not to, but he laughed anyways stepping past Napoleon and making himself at home. Gaby’s flat was mostly empty. She had taken most of her sparse furniture to the town house. She had left behind bigger pieces such as the couch and bed, a table in the kitchen and a few stools. Most of the decor was simple and minimal, she had left it behind in hopes of finding a full-time renter but most of her time and energy was spent elsewhere. Illya assumed she never visited but a few glances around told him differently. 

There was fresh fruit in a bowl on the table and when asked about it, Napoleon had simply shrugged. Her favorite oranges and tangerines were stacked in a bowl and not far from there was a few newer looking bottles of expensive liquor lining the back wall of the cabinet. He didn’t let his mind linger too long on the thought of her using the flat though. There was a chance she got lonely in the townhouse while he had been away. He had heard of women doing all sorts of things while their significant others went to war, a lot of infidelity but other stories had included adopting pets and taking on estranged hobbies. Illya simply let it go and took a glass of water offered from Solo and sat back on the couch. 

 

“So how long have you known Miss Teller?” Solo asked, stretching his long legs out. He’s wearing workout clothes and his hair is damp, face freshly shaven. Illya reaches up and touches his own face for a moment, wondering if he really needed to shave or not when he had showered this morning. He drops his hand and takes a drink of his water before laying his head back against the couch. 

“I met Gaby two years ago now?” He holds a hand up and starts ticking months off on his hand.

Napoleon nods as if he understands what Illya is doing, counting all the birthdays, holidays, and anniversaries he missed while overseas in the middle of a firestorm. “So, before you went into the program?” 

Illya scoffed, “I was in military already.”

“Right, right. Russian ranger-type right?” Solo is grinning, purposely smashing on Illya’s buttons. Illya stiffens and then scoffs once more at Solo’s American crassness. 

“Military yes, I was almost done when I met Gaby,” His accent thickens around her name and Solo watches how he softens every time he mentions her name. When they had been in the trenches, hunkering down for the night Illya hadn’t even mentioned her. He had simply played with the plain ring on his left hand and when someone asked if he was married, he had only given the cryptic answer of, ‘not yet.’ He had a photo of her though, one no one had a chance to really see. Napoleon thought he had seen it once when they had lost radio contact amongst the desert, in a non-combat zone with spirits crushed, Illya had crashed to his knees and held her picture against the front of his gear, eyes squeezing painfully shut as if he was praying. Still Gaby was prettier than Solo had imagined. He had to hand it to his Russian friend, he had found a good woman to stick by him. While Solo had just wanted to come home in general. 

“In other words like a Madman you opted to stay in? Even with her? What did she say?” Solo raised a fine eyebrow in Illya’s direction and Illya simply shrugged.

“I did not know her well enough to ask. I went into the program instead of leaving, mostly because I got to be stationed here with her. Not to mention my rank went up. In Russia it would take much more years of service for three stars, but mostly little mechanic.” Illya tried not to blush, his younger self had been smitten with the little engineer. She had only gone out with him a handful of times but he felt something stirring in his chest whenever she was near. She completely blew through his defenses, kissed him after the first date and Illya had known then there would never be anyone else worth kissing after that. Illya cleared his throat and forced himself to sit up some, turning his head over to Napoleon, “What about you, why this program? So far from your land of the free.” 

Solo shrugged, “I got into some trouble.” He said it like it was no big deal. Illya knew the secrets that fluttered around Napoleon Solo’s shadow. Whispers of him stealing antiques and shipping them off in exchange for money from several offshore accounts were just one of many. Some said he had slept with the commander’s wife, a few others had similar stories but it all chalked up to nothing. Solo simply swallowed down the rest of his drink, a clear liquid that Illya was certain wasn’t water and he stretched his legs out until they sat on the coffee table in front of the couch, “I was given the option of the program or an extended stay in some not-so accommodating places besides, now I get to spend all my time with you Peril.”

Illya scoffed, “Not here Cowboy,” He tried not to let his lips curve up too much but he was happy to have a friend from the field at home with him. After a minute or so in the silence Illya sighed, “Gaby says I was talking last night.”

Napoleon glanced at him, blue eyes bright and sparking with curiosity, “Only talking?” 

The Russian man shrugged, “I don’t remember any of it.” 

The two men sat in the silence, soaking up Illya’s words carefully. Nightmares were bound to be a thing, bound to come back. After everything they had seen, everything they had done -- it wouldn’t be normal for them to shake it off. It wasn’t like shrugging off a second skin, easy to take on and off, no this was allowing so much violence in like a disease and letting it take its course, fighting it off with a chance to survive. Illya shrugged and Napoleon sighed before clapping his hand down on Illya’s shoulder, “What we did over there, those were orders.” 

Illya reached up and rubbed both hands over his face as if trying to rub away the guilt, “I don’t remember anything, just the color red.”

\-------------

Gaby stood at the side of a glass table, it stretched nearly across the whole room, lined with black chairs, she had a projection sheet behind her and a faint glow of the computer screen before her as she moved her thumb over the small device in her hand, pressing on a button to change the slides. The chairs were filled with important men and women, all dressed in suits, in varying ages and greying hair. One man sat in full dress military garments, looking particularly red in the face as the slides flickered on and on behind her and a man in a crisp blue suit.

Another press of her thumb lead to another photo, images of war flickered behind her on the projection screen. Direct images, close ups of the battle, photos no journalist could get. These were all of one particular team, three star ranks in the middle of life and death were being projected behind her. She sucked in a sharp breath and let her brown eyes cut across the faces as her boss spoke. A man in his early fifties, standing next to her with his charming British accent filling the room. He stood tall and proud with his hands folded in front of his suit, “Now this is the program in full speed. Your investments are winning the war.” 

Alexander reached up and used the knuckle of his index finger to push his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, “These soldiers are armed with the latest technology and gear. They’re the best of the best from countries all over the world…” As he spoke, Gaby pressed the small remote in her hand, each soldier’s photo came up behind her and she resisted the urge to turn and stare at Illya when his photo came up. She stood tall, head tilted up slightly to glance about the room. Waverly pressed on, “These soldiers are expensive and must be maintained to the highest credibility which is why we’ve given them each handlers.”

A woman in her mid-thirties raised her hand, her reddish brown hair was hanging low, dangerously brushing her shoulders as she spoke, “Are they aware? During all this are they aware of the program?” 

Waverly shook his head, he glanced from Gaby and then back to the woman as if inviting Gaby to step up. She did, keeping her finger on the small remote as she shook her head to the woman, “No. None of the members are aware. They all believe they are part of a special task-force, which to be fair they are. However, none of them are aware of the technology they’re carrying. Which is why we have some of the best scientist on standby in the master control room.” Gaby paused her words and gestured out to the glass window to see the master control room. She pulled away from the room and stepped out of the door to shout to the room of engineers. She took a few more steps, holding the door open as she inhaled deeply to shout over the crowding noise of keyboards and aimless chatter, “Now, which one of you injured my soldier?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Rewind again, go back another thirty-seconds.” Gaby did not say please to the engineer whose desk she was currently leaning on. Her elbows dug down into the desk and she leaned close to the flat screen of the computer monitor, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. She concentrated as the video-cam footage was clicked back a few seconds before being played again. The footage came from a body camera placed on the soldier’s uniform, just under the right pocket’s top patch. The video was grainy and bright in some places from the desert sun, making it difficult to concentrate but Gaby managed to watch with her teeth chewing on the inside of her cheek in steady concentration as the man assaulted Illya, knife in hand, slashing through the air like the knife was nothing more than an extension of his own hand. 

“And this? Why did no one pull him back?” She asked pointing at the screen, moving down to take over the wireless mouse. She clicked twice to make the video stop and looked at the man next to her. He had thinning brown hair, thick glasses and smelled like overly-sweetened coffee and too much cheap aftershave. She eyed him carefully and looked down at his keyboard, noticing the crumbs from his lunch making their way along the nooks and crannies of his cubicle. She tapped her finger on the screen, the colors under the flat screen went vividly bright where her nail hit the screen, “Who was controlling this fight? Our Soldier sustained a knife wound and no one thought to report it?” 

Gaby felt the man next to her bristle, muscles going stiff and mouth parting to come up with some excuse but he couldn’t find his own words as she pressed her lips into a tight thin line. She sniffed softly just as her superior waltzed over. He chauffeured the board of directors around, the investors trailing along his path, some of them looking bored and others looking intrigued. 

“My assistant,” He started but then changed his mind, gesturing to Gaby, “My top agent here, Ms. Teller has control over most of the floor. Most importantly she is a handler herself. Her soldier, Kuryakin is it?” Waverly paused his words and glanced to Gaby with brows raised.

She nodded and tapped the man next to her’s shoulder and pointed up to one of the large screens that decorated the middle of the large room. The whole engineering floor looked like someone had taken small movie theatre screens and tacked them up on to the wall, different footage's playing on each one until the engineer next to Gaby changed them. All the small screens stacked atop of one another changed into one big picture of Illya. Gaby swallowed hard, trying to ignore the bright blues of his eyes as the photo rotated around, sharing his specifications with the group of visitors.

Gaby took a few steps forward, “This is Agent Kuryakin,” She felt her voice waver for a moment and reached her hands across the front of her black blazer. Without taking her eyes off of the screen she carefully slid her engagement ring off of her finger. It weighed heavily in her palm as she turned to face the investors, back to Illya’s handsome face on the screen, “He was the first for this particular project.” 

She felt proud saying the words, skipping over the hundreds of soldiers that didn’t make the cut or the ones that died while they perfected the implants, most never making it through the rounds of preparation. Instead of lingering on those thoughts, she went right to the highlights, “His grandfather was KGB, father was military as well. Mr. Kuryakin here fell into the pattern and eventually became our ideal candidate. Little to no family, perfect record, he is the ideal soldier we just made him better.” 

Waverly smiled at her selling points, his hands clapping together, “Ms. Teller became our first handler after we received the green light on the project. She and her soldier are very close right?” 

Gaby’s back straightened and she felt the ring weighing heavily in her palm. Her throat constricted and she felt herself struggling with the words before she managed to nod her head slowly, “Yes, we are but, again like I said before. All the soldiers here are oblivious to the program. We’ve found the best of the best around the world. They fit into this category and we’ve made the perfect team. This is the team that goes out first on any calls above a code red. To this date, we’ve lost no soldiers in combat and none have become self-aware. We’ve even managed to keep the traumatic stress away that happens to even the most seasoned of soldiers…” Gaby swallowed hard remembering hours ago as Illya struggled in his sleep, of waking up with his knuckles turning bloodless against the pillow, of his shaking the whole bed. Her heart stuttered around in her chest and she pushed the feeling aside, buried it deep in the cavity of her chest. Her words seemed to soothe their investors and they murmured together, looking happy at their millions being spent on the super-like-soldier behind her on the screen. The small German woman couldn’t resist turning and looking at the cluster of screens, watching as Illya’s handsome face went by again, scar close to his eye catching her attention before she glanced at the clock, it was well past lunch. 

Her stomach dropped. That couldn’t have been the time, she glanced down at the small silver bangle on her wrist, dragging the watch face towards her. It was well past lunch, Illya was waiting on her, no doubt marking every minute she wasn’t there as her being late. She cursed low under her breath as Waverly turned to face the small crowd of suits, starting up again on the benefits of their program, where all their money was going, she backed away from the meeting and took her leave, taking one last look of Illya on the digital screen before the engineers wiped him away and left. She retraced her steps out of the corporate building, heels echoing until the hallway where she didn’t bother changing her clothes, just simply pulled the overalls back up over her clothes and shed her heels for the boots as she made her way out of the garage again. She walked through the dimly lit garage, pulling a few hair pins out of her hair as she walked, shaking her head to mess up her pretty up do. Before she made it to the end, she stopped to swipe her fingers across the oil pan that was draped haphazardly over the curved edge of an old car and drew the fingers across her cheek, down over her overalls, giving her the look of a dirty mechanic who lost track of time. 

She was a walking lie to the world around her. Leaving the garage in her rear view mirror she plunged the accelerator home.

\-------

His face felt cool and bare, naked almost. He had done as Napoleon had told him to during their early morning talk. He had come home with flowers, shaved and attempted to dress nice, nicer than his military casual for lunch, of course lunch had come and gone. There was no sign of Gaby in the house. He thought about taking Napoleon up on his offer for a late lunch, take the American out to a side of London where tourists were loved and he could have the potential to charm yet another young lady. He heaved out a sigh, dropping the bouquet of white and purple flowers into the small vase he had found under the kitchen sink and moved his way across the townhouse, floorboards creaking every time he walked past them in the living room.

He had called her twice, both times his call had gone to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. Illya didn’t want to eat alone so he opted not to eat at all, instead taking himself back around the house until he fell down on the edge of the couch, soaking in the softness of the cushions and letting his muscles relax. He found the remote to the television and channel surfed until the front door opened and closed followed by a frantic call of his name and an apology tacked onto it. 

“Illya! I’m so sorry,” She sounded breathless down the hall, making her way past the living room before stopping in the open doorway, backing up a few steps and peering inside. He turned his head up and smiled at her as she took in his clean face and he watched her lips trying to form the next words, shaking his head at her dirty face, “I was-- I was working on an important project…Your face.”

“Your face.” He teased her for a moment, “You do not like it?” He felt his lips curve up into a bit of a smirk, the American was rubbing off on him too much. He shifted against the couch and made room for her, patting down on the taupe colored piece of furniture for her to sit. She carefully set her purse down, walking over the area rug, the same floorboards creaking under her petite weight as she shook her head to him.

“No, I like it.” She huffed, “I just don’t want to get the couch dirty.” She gestured to her oil covered coveralls and shook her head, planting her hands on her slender hips. He took in her disheveled look, the grease on her cheeks and the messy fallen curls of her hair. His eyes drifted down and he took in her fingers before frowning.

“Your ring.” He muttered reaching for her. His long arms caught her before she could step away from him and he tugged her forward with ease. Gaby was so slight compared to him, it was easy to lead her around. She licked over her bottom lip and glanced down at his hands on hers. He took both of her hands in his, his calloused fingers rubbing over her dirty hands, not caring if she smeared oil on him. 

“Oh,” She breathed softly, yanking her hands back from him and taking a slight step back, “It’s in my pocket.” She reached up to touch the breast pocket on her coveralls. The pocket was empty. She had dropped the ring in her pocket of her blazer under the dirty garments. Her teeth worried over her bottom lip, back and forth slowly working out how to get out of the coveralls, “I’m going to go clean up before I put it on.” She wiggled her fingers and backed away from him.

Illya reached up and stole her fingers again, standing this time. He pulled her dirty fingers up and pressed his lips to the tips of them, “I will help,” He muttered, his accent thick and she closed her eyes soaking it in for a moment, trying to distance herself from the man. She was a handler not really his fiance. They couldn’t get married, it would be unethical. 

She felt a heavy twinge in her chest at the idea of breaking his heart and shook her head, “Illya, I can wash my own hands.” 

“I would be very worried if you could not. That is not the point.” He tapped her nose with his index finger and she pulled her hands away from him and turned her back to him because it was easier not to face him and reject him. She simply turned on him and walked away, boots echoing off of the floors as she took the stairs and beat him to the top. She knew he was following her, his steps were heavier than hers and drawing in close as she reached the privacy of the bathroom where she closed the door and turned on the sink quickly before he could join her. She unzipped the coveralls, heart pounding heavy in her ears as she pulled the blazer off and dropped the ring free onto the counter top. She shed her business attire, leaving her in expensive lingerie and tugged the coveralls back up. With quick thinking she buried her clothes in the bottom of the laundry basket and washed the grease off of her fingers and cheeks before pushing the ring back onto her finger and zipping the coveralls back up. She turned off the water, wiped her hands on the coveralls and opened the door. Illya stood right in her way, making her jump. 

The tiny gasp that left her lips did not go unnoticed. He raised a dark brow in her direction before he reached over and pressed a palm to her still-damp forehead as if searching for a reason for her odd behavior. She pulled her head back and he reached down, grabbing onto the zipper of her coveralls with his index finger and thumb, “Gaby,” He was careful with her name, looking her over with a bit of worry in his eyes. 

She raised her left hand up, letting him look at the ring before she took matters into her own hand and grabbed his wrist of the hand holding her zipper and she pulled it down slowly. His breath hitched and she had him. She let her lips twist up into a devious smirk, eyes flashing with a spark as she watched his lips part and she drug his hand further down. 

Illya let her lead his hand down, slowly unzipping her coveralls, exposing miles of tawny skin and black, expensive lingerie. He vaguely wondered if this is what she always wore under her work clothes, but that idea didn’t last long as he got to the end of the zipper just an inch or so below her naval. His throat constricted and she let go of his hand. His knuckles brushed over the place where the zipper had been just seconds ago. The muscles in her stomach jumped and she closed her eyes to revel in the feeling of his knuckles traveling north. His calloused fingers pushed the edges of her coveralls back slowly, knocking them off of her shoulders, letting them fall loosely around her hips while he mapped out the skin close to the strap of her black brassiere. His thumb smoothed a small circle along the skin there. Her skin prickled around him with goosebumps and she let out a tiny sigh that spurred him onwards. They skipped lunch altogether in favor of him mapping the rest of her body. 

His mouth fell to the top of her shoulder where he mouthed a line of open kisses across her collarbone and attacked the column of her throat with sharp teeth. She gasped and raised her arms, locking them around his neck and in doing so, he knocked the rest of her coveralls down her legs. His fingers gripped into her thighs, threatening to bruise the skin as he pulled her up. She locked her legs around him and he pushed her hard into the wall next to the open bathroom door. His hips pressing just below her own as he kissed the line down her neck, trailing down her sternum and biting the soft round top of her breast exposed by the thin fabric. Gaby moaned and moved her hand up, smoothing her fingers through the short hair, feeling him rock up against her. Her skin was on fire, everywhere he touched felt like he was striking matches over her skin just to watch her light up and burn. 

She felt like a dying star in his grasp, ready to explode and collapse in his arms. 

He smoothed his mouth lower and pressed his mouth to the front of her breast, soaking the lace of the expensive brassiere and she moved her hand over the top of his head, lips parting in a sharp sound only to snap shut when her eyes landed on the ring on her finger. She took a sharp breath through her nose, holding it as she eyed the ring reflecting the light in the room. It was beautiful. It had a history. It had been his mother’s and Illya only spoke highly of two women in his life, his mother had been one and Gaby the other. She felt guilt well up in her stomach and the excitement drained from her. 

Illya kept going and she let him. She let him pull him away from the wall and walk her to the bed where he found a place for his mouth between her legs and a place for his hands holding her thighs open. He left bruising kisses along her skin and then soothed them away with the palm of his hand, carefully taking his time with her. Somewhere along the way he lost his own clothes and eventually lost himself in the feel of her, collapsing with his face buried in the back of her neck with her hips pressing back into his, grinding herself into her own release before she fell back to the ground, soaking in the soft feeling of the bed as her legs felt like jelly underneath her. She didn’t risk getting up just yet. Instead she let her head fall back against his chest and she held her hand up and he took it, kissing her ring finger before letting her stroke his clean shaven cheek until she fell asleep. 

Gaby’s soft snore ripped through the room and Illya smiled into the back of her neck. He pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades and then pulled away from her. He untangled himself from his fiance and pulled the sheet up over her body so she wouldn’t shiver too badly in his absence. His stomach rumbled and he pulled boxers up his hips, walking down the steps. He made his way to the kitchen, eyeing the lonely flowers before opening the fridge. He pulled out the carton of milk and drank from the container before grabbing an apple from the bowl on the kitchen island. He bit down into the fruit and walked around, stretching out his muscles, enjoying the afterglow that only Gaby could give him. He smiled at the red lines appearing down his chest from where her hands had dug into him, and the bruise that would show up on his shoulder from her biting into his flesh to stifle her moans. He padded into the living room, listening once more as the floorboards creaked. 

Irritation twitched across his face as he moved once more over the spot. It was only the one spot that creaked under his weight and he moved his barefoot over the edge of the area rug, pushing the carpet up and over. The wood looked scratched, like someone had pried it up and laid it back down sloppily. Moving the apple in his hand, he took another bite of it and held it in his teeth as he knelt down on the floor, hands moving over the planks. After a moment he felt the catch in the wood and pulled it upwards with the tip of his thumbnail. Three or four planks came up at once which surprised him. He glanced up at the clock on the wall, it was almost time for dinner, Gaby was still fast asleep and now curiosity was burning in his brain as he reached down under the floorboards where there was a small cubby. A wooden box sat under the planks. It was a solid box made from cherry colored wood, well lacquered and old. The edges of it were worn down and it was heavy -- full.

\-------

The bed was warm, her muscles were worn and tired -- sleep came so easily to her when Illya was involved. Before she had met Illya, Gaby had hardly slept at all. Insomnia had run rampant in her life, but somehow it was easier to sleep with the giant Russian curled around her. She stretched under the sheet he had pulled around her and she curled back up, her face burying further down into her soft pillow. A soft exhale leaving her lips as she fought the urge to fall back asleep, she had felt Illya move but opted to stay in bed, snoring away, but she wanted him back in the bed with her. Without Illya, the bed was cold and lonely. She stretched her legs out again and the sound of his feet hitting the steps caught her attention and she smiled lazily into the pillow. All thoughts of breaking his heart were put on hold after he had coaxed a third orgasm from her.

She heard the door creak open and she rolled onto her back, hand outstretched into the dusk-colored light of the room as the gloom of the day settled through the thin curtains. Her fingers sought his out, “Illya,” She yawned softly, “Come back to bed.” She waited for him to kneel on the end of the bed and crawl up to her, crawl back between her legs and find himself at home. After a minute his hand found hers and he crawled into bed with her, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

“Gaby,” He said her name like a strained prayer and she shushed him softly with her lips pursed and snuggled back into him.

“We’ll talk later.” She yawned and he nodded, eyes wide open in the dusk settling around the room. 

“Yes, we will.” He answered her and she missed the meaning in his words as she fell back into the warmth of him and the invitation of sleep stole her away.


	4. Chapter 4

Gaby slept soundly, Illya stayed awake. He waited until her breathing stayed deep and even, her fingers slowly tangling with his and then untangling as she slipped further into sleep. As her fingertips lingered on his, his thumb stroked over the ring on her finger. He felt an ache in his chest, mind full of the box downstairs, hidden in the living room under the rug. She exhaled softly, snuggled back into his chest, her hips were wedged against his own like a puzzle piece seeking its place in the big picture. He tried not to move, trying to make sense of the box downstairs. It was full of papers, transfer papers from other countries. There were passports too, different colors with different names printed in them, all of them with Gaby’s picture. They had felt real in his hands downstairs. They were watermarked and heavy, thick paper and real ink stains stamped along the edges of them. She had been around the world with more than one name. 

Not to mention the thick plastic badge he had found under the passports. It had a microchip in it and a faded picture of Gaby. It was an older photo of her. He knew that from her hair, it had been longer and she had no bangs in that photo. The badge had an ID number printed across the bottom and his stomach had dropped like he had swallowed a ball of lead. She wasn’t an engineer or small time mechanic. 

Lies. She was all lies wrapped up in a pretty package, that someone had addressed to him. Like a fool he had taken the bait. He had fallen for the small woman in front of him without even knowing her. Anger flashed across his face, his fingers shook and then he tapped, once -- twice, three times. It was a rhythmic tapping that he counted in his head, holding his breath. Red bled into his vision and Gaby shifted once more. The red receded slowly, he blinked it away, focused on the tousled brown hair that was spilling over his pillow. 

Did she know what he did for a living? The team -- his team, did she know his missions? Did she know who he was when he had ran into her in the airport in Italy? A thousand questions began forming in his mind, one right after another forming, each one making him sick to his stomach. There was a sour taste in his mouth and he frowned as she slept soundly -- innocently. 

“Is your name even Gaby?” He found himself asking the question against the back of her neck. His breath pushing the short hairs away, tickling his nose. He exhaled as she hummed in her sleep, pressing closer to him like she always did when they slept together. When she hummed he kept his mouth shut and found himself tightening the arm around her as he went through their recent memories. Of him stalking the house, sharing the orange, all those happy pictures of them. Pictures of him and her, smiling wide on vacation, laughing in still frames like they were happy. He had been happy. 

His calloused fingers stroked the spare bit of skin peeking freely as her light shirt rode up. He soaked up whatever bit of normalcy he could with her curled into him. He closed his eyes but didn’t sleep. He held onto the warmth of her and morning came too soon. 

Gaby’s alarm went off and she whined rolling over in his hold. Her lips found the tip of his nose and then she clumsily kissed him, but he didn’t kiss her back. He pretended to be asleep, brows furrowing like she was waking him up too soon. He feigned exhaustion and she muttered something of working late, some car giving her trouble. It was a lie, every word leaving her pretty mouth was a lie. Something twisted in his gut, warning him that this was dangerous territory. That the woman he loved, the one that wore his ring was not what she seemed. 

“I’ll be home in time for dessert,” Her voice was soft and she kissed his wrinkled brow with her warm lips and then pulled away. The mattress dipped and he was left alone while the shower started and Gaby was gone before the clock turned eight. The morning light trickled through, everything a haze of gray as the rain started. It pounded against the thin panes of the glass before lightening up into a soft drizzle. Illya was up the moment the front door had shut and the lock tumbled. He showered and dressed with military precision, hair barely dried as he slipped down the steps two at a time, making it to the living room. The rug stood no chance as he shoved it aside and knocked over the small end table in the process. Glass shattered as a lamp rocked back and forth before succumbing to gravity. Illya paid it no mind, just pried the wood up like he had before, fingernail bending back as the boards come up exposing the little cubby. The box was still there, so were the contents. All the lies she had built up were buried inside. He heaved it up under his arm and didn’t bother with setting anything back as he moved his way out of their shared townhome. 

He took the train the few blocks over to Gaby’s flat, where Napoleon stood in the doorway, wrapped up in his military sweats, hair wet, dark circles under his eyes. He was obviously sleeping when Illya had called him, not making any sense just babbling on and on about his fiance. The American had his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised when Illya shoved the box at him.

“What is this?” 

Illya gestured at the small box, looking around the hallway of the building before slipping inside the flat and closing the door behind him. Napoleon took a few steps inside, setting the box on the arm of the small floral couch, “Is a box of lies.” Illya’s words reflected his seething anger, his hands were curled into fists and the tops of his cheeks were red.

Napoleon looked at him sideways before moving his hands down to open the box. He thumbed through passports and identification cards, each one different from the next, all with Gaby’s picture printed over them. He ran the edge of his finger along one of the passports, pulling the edge of laminated film back, “If these are faked, they’re incredible.” 

Illya scoffed, “Of course they’re faked.” 

Napoleon turned the small blue passport over in his hand, “I don’t think so.” He squinted a bit at the logo and turned it upside down, “Trust me on this one Peril. If this is fake then I’ll tell you my real name.” 

“Solo is your name.”

“That’s what you and the U.S. Government thinks, yes.” He said lightly before picking up another ID card and blowing out a low whistle, “They’re all for a Gabriella Schmidt.” 

“Her name is Teller.” Illya huffed crossing his arms over his chest. His cheeks were still tinged red, his jaw tight like he was unable to unclench the muscles in his body, wound up with a strange mix of anxiety and anger. The blonde man shifted back and sat on the edge of the coffee table in the middle of the room, facing the couch, head bowed for a moment before looking up at Solo like a desperate man in church, seeking an answer from the priest. “Her name is Gabriella Teller. I know her. I know her more than anyone Solo.” 

Napoleon pulled out a few more of the passports and cards, placing each one of them on the table like playing cards laid out in a winning poker hand, “Seems like to me her name is Gabriella Schmidt.” 

Illya’s face fell, he glanced over the cards, “You think she’s spy?” 

“Isn’t that the obvious answer here Peril?” Solo’s voice went serious and quiet. They both knew their job was secretive, technically they were foot soldiers on paper, but under all that paper there were blacked out lines and thick folder of nothing but top secret missions that took place in the middle of the night with more gunfire than any war could imagine and assassinations that never made headlines. Both of them were roped into a specific team of what could be called freelancers, but they were more than that, each one of them on a short leash held by a privatized military group. 

“Do you think she knows our job?” Illya’s voice cracked and Solo wondered for a moment if he had imagined the Russian man breaking down in front of him, his usual statuesque composure breaking away. Napoleon licked over his bottom lip, looking in the box again as if he could some sort of answer or explanation to the identification cards that were now stacked next to Illya on the table. 

“Hard to say, I don’t even really know our job. I feel like half of my life is missing. I go to sleep and wake up, not remembering the night before. Maybe stress is making us paranoid in our old age.” 

Illya cut his gaze upwards, “You do not remember either?” 

Napoleon shrugged, “Stressful jobs do that.” 

“Yes, but stress does not make us lose days of memory at a time.” Illya stood up so fast his hand caught the box and knocked it down from the arm of the couch. The box fell and cracked, the bottom of it opening up and spilling a few more scraps of paper out, paper that had been tucked into the bottom lock of the box neither one of them had noticed. The two men looked down together, the familiar logo of their military uniform catching their eyes. 

“I think she knows.” Solo drawled kneeling to pick up the paper. He held it up between two fingers, the thick black cut of the stars and symbol catching the light, on the back of the card there were ID numbers, coordinates and a smaller number that was more than likely a key code.

\--------------------

“It doesn’t make sense,” The engineer spoke low and Gaby glanced up from her phone, thumb paused over the slick screen. Her hair was curling along the edges of her face, her bun coming undone from the clumsy updo she had done in the car in an attempt to look presentable for work.

“Care to elaborate?” Gaby asked, her tone was commanding, not light. This wasn’t a request, this was an order. She tapped her thumb on her phone, moving to send a text message to Waverly, to get him down to the main control room.

The man in the small cubical turned towards her. His glasses were thick, dark hair thinning across his shining head, he was nervous just being around Gaby. She could tell by the way his words trembled when he spoke and how he typed especially louder when she leaned over the edge of his chair to view his screen better. He adjusted his tie and found his words, “Officer Kuryakin, ma’am.” 

“What about him?” Her curiosity peaked and she raised both brows, lips pursing as she surveyed the man in front of her. The engineer cleared his throat again.

“Well his sleep studies, show that he struggles with a normal sleep pattern. Suggesting the chip is wearing off. Like his signal is slowly fading off of our maps. I put in a request last week to have his whereabouts printed up but it seems support is failing. The gps coordinates are all over the map.” 

Gaby leaned up a bit, scooting to the edge of her chair, “Chips don’t go bad though, it could be faulty satellites.”

“Think of it like a battery.” The man tried to break it down for her, his pudgy fingers knitting together for a moment as if he could explain with finger puppets to her. She wrinkled her nose for a moment, trying to sort out the questions that were starting to pile up in her thoughts, “The power in a battery starts to deplete over time. Especially when left on constantly. It’s like your phone, eventually the signal goes out.” 

“Yes, but if that’s the case then why don’t we recharge him or something?”

“The chips were never designed for the long term use. Officer Kuryakin has had his in the longest, honestly I’m surprised he’s still sending a signal at all. The cameras on their uniforms are replaced with each tour, but the chips are trickier. They require surgical removal.” The man reached up and pressed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. 

Gaby cocked her head to the side for a moment, a few more pieces of her hair tumbling free, “So you’re telling me, my soldier is remembering everything?” 

“Not quite.” The man steepled his fingers together, “It’s more like the effects of the chip are wearing off. Soon we won’t be able to move him in battle, theoretically of course. This is all theory that the chip will eventually deactivate. We’ve never had it in a test subject for such a long time. Officer Kuryakin has survived longer in the field than most.” 

“That’s because I keep him alive.” Gaby sounded defensive almost, standing up. In her heels she was still small, but she commanded power with every step she took, a fierce tone to her voice, “I give him something to live for. This project is important to me.” 

The man shrank back a bit, “Ah, yes, but he’s still the longest running test subject we’ve ever had. Does he exhibit any signs of knowing? Self-awareness?” 

“Are you asking me if my soldier knows about the program? As if I would violate the whole program at the risk of exposing us?” 

“No! No! I didn’t ask that,” he fumbled with his words and she sucked in a sharp breath turning her attention onto his computer screen with the map up, the small red dot blinking at a familiar address. He was at her flat in the city. She squinted at the screen for a moment and cut her brown eyes over to the engineer.

“Start figuring out a way to recharge him. I have a multi-million dollar deal waiting on the success of this program, and if you can, get rid of his nightmares.” Her voice wavered for a moment, memories of him shaking in the bed, of clutching the pillow so tight that it almost ripped under the strain. If she could do anything for him it would be taking away the nightmares. The engineer swiveled around in his chair as if to ask her about the nightmares. The program was supposed to eliminate all the stressful points of the job. He stared over the edge of his glasses at her, as if wondering how many more details she was withholding from the job. She shot him a glare and he swiveled back around. She stepped away from the engineer and tapped at her phone again, putting in her small bluetooth ear-piece as the phone dialed out. 

It rang a few times before she heard the familiar click, a faint panting sound of her fiance, “Gaby.” 

Gaby glanced back at the computer screen. He wasn’t mobile according to the map, he was stationary. She wondered why he was out of breath on the phone, “I called to make dinner plans,” She lied softly and felt her heart twist in her chest at how easy it was lying to the good man on the line. He trusted her and she lied to him, “What are you doing?” 

“I thought you were working late.” He didn’t bother with her other question, just the sounds of Solo moving faintly in the background was all she caught over the sound of his words. She frowned at his words, that had been the lie she had spun this morning. 

“I know, but I’m going to try to cut out early. Maybe we could catch the ballet tonight,” She hummed at the idea, loving the theatre and loving when they went together and he had an arm around her while she watched the show with wide eyes and full attention. 

Illya didn’t answer her right away, instead he muttered something she couldn’t quite catch before coming back to the phone, “Since you are working late, I made plans with Solo. I intend to take him out to meet some nice London women, maybe one of them can tame him.” 

Gaby frowned, “But,” She tried to interrupt but Illya cut her off.

“No need to come home. You work on that car,” and he disconnected. 

She pulled her phone up for a moment, staring at the screen in disbelief as the call ended. Silence settled around her, peppered with the sound of keys being depressed on keyboards, the faint clatter of the war-room at work. She swallowed hard and pulled her phone away from her face, letting it drop to the edges of her fingers. Gaby barely had a moment to register the conversation before a sharp voice commanded her attention.

“Agent Teller, my office if you please.” Waverly’s voice boomed over the war room. He stood up on the steps overhead, glaring down at them all through his spectacles. She straightened her back and nodded, gripping her phone tighter and then dropping it into the pocket of her blazer. The sound of low chatter around her vanished and she refused to look defeated, making her way across the floor. Chairs rolled out of her way and she ascended the stairs, heading for the glass office at the top. She made her way inside and closed the door behind her, ignoring the countless stares that were probably watching her now as she moved into the inner sanctuary of the director’s office. 

“Sir,” Gaby began only to see Waverly hold up a hand. She instantly closed her lips and stood straight, arms crossed in front of her, holding onto her wrists. A chill crawled across her skin, the air in the office was cold. She focused on Waverly, on his hands shifting along piles of papers. He let his thumb smooth over the creases of papers, picking through the stapled edges with careful precision. After a moment he pulled out a manilla envelope and opened it. Black and white photos spilled out. It was a mass of them, all screenshots stolen from security footages. Gaby edged a step forward, carefully peering down at the photos, trying to get a better view of the photos. She could only see Illya’s outline, she had spent over a year watching him. She knew his figure from anywhere. She could pick him out of a crowd practically blindfolded. There was something magnetic about him. 

“Agent Teller, you’ve been with us for about four years now? On the soldier project for two now?” He thumbed through the photos slowly, glancing through them before finding in particular before turning the photo in his hand around. Gaby kept her face neutral. She didn’t let her mouth fall open and she was more proud that she resisted the urge to shout at the black and white photo of her and Illya sprawled out over their bed, clothing gone, and bodies endless. 

“Yes Sir, I’ve been on the project for over two years, twenty-seven months to be exact. Officer Kuryakin is my charge.” Gaby spoke carefully, inwardly priding herself on keeping her voice from shaking as Waverly dropped the one photo and picked up the next. More photos of the inside of their shared home. She tried not to let her anger flare. Part of the job was constantly monitoring Officer Kuryakin, but she never thought that extended to her home.

“You and Officer Kuryakin are very close...I see.” He spoke carefully, British tone almost taunting her as he flipped through more photos, to some of just her walking down the sidewalk, groceries in hand. She shifted her weight foot to foot, trying to contain her composure, carefully turning her left hand over, covering it with her right hand. The ring weighed heavily on her finger. She wondered if Alexander could see. She hadn’t exactly told the world when he proposed. In fact, she hadn’t told much of anyone when Illya proposed. 

She could still see his nervous hands now, dragging them down her arm and pulling her hand up. He had kissed her knuckles and walked further into the night with her. She had worn the most uncomfortable shoes, dressed in something he had bought her when he came home from traveling to Rome. The dress had been orange and cream, floated around her thighs and had cut outs in the back, exposing her tawny skin. They had spent the evening dancing until she couldn’t take it anymore, legs shaking and nerves buzzing with the taste of alcohol on her lips, he asked her if she wanted to dance one more time. The question had been so absurd she laughed, turning on her heel to face him, ready to ask him if he was insane when he knelt. The project had become so real in a matter of moments. Her lungs had lost their air as she took in the sight of him kneeling on damp pavement with his golden hair mussed from her frisky fingers. Something twisted in her stomach, she felt like he had stolen the air from her lungs with his handsome face and earnest smile. His own fingers had shook holding the little velvet box and suddenly the whole project felt wrong. 

It was a violation. She knew his habits, his likes and dislikes. She knew what triggered him, what calmed him. Gaby hadn’t screamed out a yes like the women did on the silver screens. She stood there for a moment, waiting for a train to knock her from her feet, waiting for him to close the little box and start laughing like it was all a joke. Only he didn’t laugh. He stayed down on one knee until the other collapsed next and even kneeling he was a God among men. She hesitated in stepping forward, his blue eyes sparked and she forgot all about the mission, whispering out her answer as he wound his hands around her middle, pressing his forehead against the cage of her ribs, “Yes, yes, yes…” She had repeated the whisper over and over and his fingers gripped at her dress wrinkling the fabric, but none of that mattered. 

She wore his ring for the rest of the night, even in the bed when he spent a good half of his humble paycheck on an expensive hotel suite, roses and more. When he collapsed next to her on the mattress, he told her the story of that ring. Of his mother’s insistence that he take it, the insistence that he only give it up when he was certain. Illya had fallen asleep on her chest, holding her like any lover would with his arms wrapped around her while she laid her head back on the plush pillows, arm held up high, ring sparkling in the moonlight. Guilt had pooled in her stomach and when he shifted, snoring softly against her midriff, the guilt ebbed away. Loving her charge was never in the program.

Waverly cleared his throat and Gaby pulled herself away from the memory, tugging the wedding ring off as carefully as she could, hiding it in her palm, “Yes Sir, I am very close to the charge.” She didn’t try to argue the evidence in front of her, “I’ve kept him alive longer than anyone else on the program. In fact, Officer Kuryakin is the longest running candidate alive. If anything sir, I’ve upped the bar for success.” 

The edges of the man’s lips twitched like he wanted to smile at her audacity to make such a claim. It was true though, the statistics didn’t lie. Kuryakin was the oldest member of the program, the oldest living at least, and he had a record unlike any of the others. Though the paperwork before him was all red flagged, engineers were asking too many questions, data jumps were all over the paperwork. The program was slowly failing, losing momentum. One word of that to the investors and their entire branch would be shut down. Waverly would be left penniless and jobless. His reputation would be shattered if any of the paperwork before him became public knowledge. He shifted a few more of the photographs around, eyes sliding over the naked back of his Agent before him, staying too close to her charge, blurring too many lines. 

“Yes, well, we’re terminating Officer Kuryakin from the program.” 

“What?” Gaby’s voice became a hiss, her cheeks flared and she took a daring step forward, “What did you just say?” 

“Officer Kuryakin will be terminated effective immediately. I’m sure we can transfer you to another Charge, we did take on a few new recruits this last tour.” 

“Terminated as in, let go?” Gaby’s bottom lip trembled despite her iron exterior, it was getting harder and harder to contain her temper. 

Waverly glanced up from the paperwork, moving his hand up to tear his wire-rimmed glasses away from his face. Without his glasses he looked a few years younger, he wiped at his face with his palm and sighed heavily, “His chip will need to be recovered. It’s Government property. Terminated as in terminated Agent Teller. I’m sure you read in your entry paperwork what this program entitled. Officer Kuryakin had a fantastic run, but the reason we selected these men with little to no families was to ensure funerals would be short and cost effective.”

Gaby’s throat constricted, “Understood, Sir.” 

He waved at her, “Please use the phone number listed in your phone for the cleaning services. I expect you’ll be as efficient at this as you were with watching him.”


	5. Chapter 5

The world is too loud. 

She leaves the building, strips off her uniform and dresses back into the dirty coveralls of the fake garage. Her boots carry her to the damp sidewalk, the rain is slowly easing away, but Gaby stands there anyways. She faces her reflection in the shiny silver car that’s parked in front of the shop. The world is too loud, the sounds are amplified around her like she’s a conductor of the band. Too many sounds are washing over her. The cars whizzing by are breaking the sound barrier, she can hear every raindrop as it strikes the silver car and sidewalk. A car alarm blares in the distance and it the rain finally soaks through her coveralls. The chill of the rain reminds her that it’s time to go and somehow she manages to slide inside of her car but she doesn’t find the strength to turn it on just yet. Her fingers grip the steering wheel and then the first sob hits her. A scream claws itself free of her throat and she bangs her hands on the steering wheel, the wedding ring falling into her lap. She beats the wheel until her fingers are raw and burning, wrists bruised. She beats it until her lungs are burning and she can’t find anymore sounds in her lungs. Gaby’s forehead falls to the top of the wheel and she lays her head there, exhausted with wet hair and cheeks. Her eyelashes are heavy with tears and she takes a shuddering breath turning the key in the ignition.

\-------------

“Tell me again, what we’re doing?” Solo’s voice is strained as he moves another piece of furniture. Together the two men have practically torn the apartment apart. They’ve moved every piece of furniture, searched every nook and cranny and yet, there is nothing more. No more boxes, no papers of their team. The rug is overturned, most of the lamps and photo frames are broken, but nothing to show for it all.

“Looking,” Illya grits his teeth as he moves the massive armoire away from the wall and it teeters, threatening to fall. He manages to move it away from the wall far enough for him to squeeze behind it. There’s nothing on the wall, no hidden cubbies, no safe hiding in the wall like some mystery novel would have. He blows out a sigh peeking around the piece of furniture, “There is nothing here.” 

“I doubt she would have much more than the box. Seems too risky to me, then again I wouldn’t know.” Solo shrugged softly, the only thing he knew of spies were crime novels. He moved across the room and opens the armoire, there’s nothing but books and photographs, knick knacks from his trips overseas. Solo reaches up for a tacky frame. It has fake columns on the side of the frame and Illya leans over his shoulder, blowing out a quiet sigh. 

“That’s us in Rome.” He sounds far away for a moment, like he’s remembering something worthwhile. His blue eyes spark and he smiles at nothing in particular, just the image of Gaby in her over-sized sunglasses, pursing her lips against his cheek. She’s absurdly short in the photo, his hand is on her waist practically holding her up. She had been drunk in the photo, they were still dating and she was determined to make him dance with her right there on the sidewalk. He had refused and she tackled him on the beach. Sand went everywhere, her laughter permeated the air and he had known then that he was in trouble. The small woman was a force of nature, leaning over him with the sharp smile, knees on either side of him. He had kissed her there, picked her up, twirled her. He twirled her until she begged for him to stop, kicking up sand as she fought for a chance to be put down. He didn’t though, he passed his camera off to a local and their moment was caught on film. 

“Honeymoon?” Solo asked turning his head over, brow raised. Illya shook his head softly and reached for the frame. He plucked it out the American’s thieving fingers and reached behind the frame to pull the photo out.

“First vacation,” He held on to the photo and dropped the frame on the coffee table. The cheap tacky trinket broke but he held firm to the photograph, “I told her I loved her.” His eyes stayed on their happy smiling faces. He was lost in the picture. Lost in the memory of her pressed to his side, of her lips on his cheek. 

Solo gave off a soft, “Ah makes sense.” 

Which made Illya’s grip on the photo tighten, it crunched in his palm and he balled it up, stuffing it into his pocket, uncaring of the damage he had done to the memory, “Is nothing now.” 

Napoleon watched him for a moment, shaking his dark head. He had fought beside Kuryakin for over a year now, they had become something just beyond friends, like a member of the family. Solo knew the look in Illya’s eyes, “You don’t believe that anymore than I do.” 

“It doesn’t matter now.” Illya ended the conversation with sharp words, “I need to get back to the townhouse. My pack is there, so is the safe.”

“Safe?” Solo was grabbing his jacket, preparing himself for a rainy London afternoon. He pulled the clothing over his arms and zipped it up to his collar. 

“Gun safe.” Illya answered quietly and Solo nodded before they left the flat, leaving behind overturned furniture and memories.

\-------------

Alexander Waverly stood over his desk with his palms braced down over the piece of furniture, head down. A group of agents were standing in his office, fully dressed in their tactical gear. All black on black, standard issued weapons, a sense of seriousness filling the air. He reached up and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as he stared down at the tablet in front of him. The piece of technology let off a soft sound, a notification flashing across the smooth screen. Agent Teller was on the move, her small red pin moving across the digital map. Her red pin hadn’t moved in over an hour, telling him she was defecting in her own way. Even if she wasn’t, her lack of motivation on the orders was enough for him to call the meeting before him.

“Gentlemen,” Waverly cleared his throat and pulled his gaze up from the tablet to the group of men in front of him. There were seven of them in total, all of them with outstanding service accommodations, all of them leaning forward to listen to his direct orders. Alexander moved his hands off of the desk and clapped them together, “We have a situation. I have a potential rogue agent and project soldier subject on the run. They are to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Most importantly, the soldier must be brought back. He is Government property.” 

The air in the room was thick, stifling, his suit felt too tight but he pressed on anyways, glancing at the agents before him. He didn’t like putting his own down, but the photographs told him he had to. Agent Teller was too close to Officer Kuryakin. She was toeing a dangerous line that would end up getting them all in a situation where they would never recover. It was better to cut his loss now, “You have twenty-four hours, dismissed.”

\-------------

Gaby parked the car down the block and took her time trying to find her nerves as she sat in the driver’s seat with short shallow breathes leaving her lips. She closed her eyes and thumped her forehead against the steering wheel again.

“I don’t want to do this. Please don’t make me do this.” She prayed silently, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. She took a shuddering breath, she had to do this. This was her job. Waverly had pulled her out of a crappy little garage and a poverty stricken life for a chance at greatness. She had the skills, the wit he needed. She could do this. He was just a charge. He wasn’t really her fiance, this wasn’t a real relationship no matter how real it felt. Gaby sucked in a sharp breath in an attempt to calm her nerves, sitting up and leaning back in her seat. Her brown eyes caught movement in the rear view mirror and she raised a brow, watching as Illya and his American friend walked around the sidewalk towards the townhouse, before going in the front door. 

She closed her eyes tightly, she could possibly surprise Illya, but both him and the American would be difficult. No doubt she wouldn’t make it out of that fight. Reaching up she wiped at her eyes, pushing herself up in her seat to glance in the mirror a little better, cleaning up her smeared make up. She retouched her lipstick and moved away from the mirror before catching sight of a figure in black, creeping along the edge of her home. She recognized him instantly, he was from the same program as she. Gaby’s heart skipped a beat and she moved for her glove compartment, yanking the small handgun from the compartment. With quick fingers, she checked the chamber before letting her thumb slide over the safety, disengaging it. 

Alexander didn’t trust her. 

She tried to not think of that. She focused on the agent moving for the backdoor, testing the house for weak spots. Both Solo and Illya were in the house, no doubt probably relaxing, television on loud. Gaby pulled herself together, pushing her way out of the car and moving up the sidewalk with an even jog, gun poised in both hands, ready to strike at the first sign of black. If anyone was going to take her charge out, it was going to be her. She owed Illya an explanation, she owed him his ring back. She owed him more than she could ever put into words. 

There were no words for them, for what they had. 

She climbed the steps to her townhouse, gun ready and she pressed her back against the doorjamb before going for the knob. She carefully opened the door, hand on the painted wood to push it open. It swung and before she could edge inside, a bullet whizzed by. The sharp sound of gunfire was too close for comfort, the door splintered and she threw herself inside of the house, passing the steps to push herself around the side of the wall, the American cursed.

“She’s shorter than I remembered,” Solo shouted followed by the sound of a soft curse.

“You’re shooting at me?” Gaby’s voice was shrill as she aimed around the edge of the wall and fired off at the devilishly charming man poised in her hallway. Two shots were fired, she missed. He was quick. She cursed at bullets embedding themselves in her beautiful walls and she moved around the edge of the room. Stepping further into her living room, her boots crunched over broken glass and her heart skipped a beat at the sight of her rug pulled up, box gone. All her secrets were out, exposed to the world -- exposed to Illya. Her stomach sank and she nearly dropped her gun. 

“We need to talk.” She didn’t have to look up to know that voice, instead she just closed her eyes. There was no explaining any of this and coming out on top. She blinked her eyes open, up to him. He was holding a gun on her, trained fingers in all the right places, safety off. Her throat constricted and she nodded to him as he gestured to her gun, “Put it down, Gaby.” 

She raised both hands carefully and sank down to the floor. Her knees pressed into the hardwood floor and she set the small firearm down, “Illya there’s an agent outside. He’s going to come in, Illya he’s not with me.”

“I do not believe you.” His accent was thick. He had been waiting a long time to tell her those words no doubt. She wanted to ask him how he found her box. She wanted to ask him how he managed to figure out missing pieces of the puzzle. There was no time though, she needed to warn him. There was an agent outside, possibly more. Gaby parted her lips to speak but he shook his head at her, gun still pointed in her direction. She had the urge to sob but managed to hold it back. He had no need to trust her. She had just come into her own home gun drawn, he had found her box under the floorboards, found the details of her life she had so painstakingly hidden from him. 

The American moved behind Illya, his own gun on her. Gaby resisted the urge to scowl at the man for taking a shot at her, for putting a hole in her front door. She shifted up on her knees and both of them moved their fingers to the trigger, causing her to freeze instantly. Her gaze slipped back to Illya, he had on a blank look, something she couldn’t quite read. Swallowing hard she shifted again on her knees, edging forward just a bit, “Please, I came in because I saw another person go around back.” 

“That is why you have gun?” He hooked his chin towards her forgotten gun, “You hate guns, or was that a lie too?” 

She snapped her lips shut, resisting the urge to fight with him but it was hard. 

“I hate guns, but I have them for work.”

“What is your work exactly Miss Schmidt.” Napoleon spoke up and Gaby looked over to him flexing her fingers for a moment. She wanted Illya to herself right now, she wanted the chance to explain everything without the nosy American but she was running out of time. 

“I am a member of MI-6. A specialized division focusing on special forces” She spoke carefully, “I was selected four years ago for a project. I was an engineer. That part is true.” She’s not looking at Napoleon now, she’s back to her fake fiance. Watching him, watching his eyes for any spark of recognition. She’s greeted with nothing but a cold hard stare. It sends shivers down her spine, it makes her stomach plummet in a freefall. She glances behind them both, watching for tell tale signs of an intruder. 

“Go on,” Illya encourages her with that ice cold tone of his, he is unyielding in his stare. 

Her skin prickles under his gaze, “I was recruited for a special project working with soldiers in combat.”

Illya’s breath hitched, she could hear it across the room. Her heart skipped a beat, slowly losing it’s rhythm, cracking against her ribcage like the shell of an egg. She carried on, because he deserved it. If he wouldn’t listen to her about another agent closing in, maybe he would listen to her now. Gaby licked over her bottom lip, “You were my charge. Meeting you on that plane in Italy was planned. Making you stay in London, all of it, planned.” 

She watched his jaw tick, she watched his knuckles tighten on the gun. He was shaking with anger, finger starting to tap against the grip of his firearm, “You lie.” 

Something warm hit her cheek. The first tear slipped down the slope of her cheek, cutting through her make up. Her bottom lip trembled and another tear followed the first as she shook her head to him, “It’s all true. I know everything about you. About your family, your life before you enlisted. The job here in London, right after we met? That one was all staged. How do you think you got your promotion so easily with your own team...” 

“Peril let me shoot her.” Gaby clamped her lips shut at Napoleon’s words and she put her head down.

“No.” Illya ordered and she resisted the urge to thank him for the kindness extended to her, “Keep going.”

“You’re both implanted.” 

“What like a dog?” Solo interrupted again and Illya nudged him with his elbow and the American closed his lips, giving Gaby the motion to continue. 

“You both have special chips in your bicep. Only my love, yours is fading away.” Gaby looked up at Illya now, brown eyes meeting his icy gaze, she stared at him as hard as he stared at her, pushing all the truth she could at him in such a short amount of time. She wanted him to believe her, he needed to believe her. 

Illya blew out a huff through his nose, “I am not your love.” 

A gunshot went off and Gaby shrieked, waiting for the heat to bloom across her chest, only it didn’t. Instead a body dropped down next to her in the doorway and she didn’t bother holding her hands up anymore. She scrambled away from the body of the man in black, kicking her legs out in an attempt to move faster. The agent that had been outside was now dead in her living room, bleeding over the hardwood floor, the air leaving his lungs like a deflating balloon. Gaby scrambled back until her shoulder hit the small ottoman by the couch and Illya was there. He snaked his hand under her arm and yanked her up as if she weighed nothing. He had plenty of practice in holding her up.

“Let go!” She shrieked out at him, kicking a leg out, catching him in the stomach with her elbow. He grunted and let go, moving to grab onto her wrist but she had training. Waverly had made sure of that when she first started. She pushed her wrist forward and then with one quick move she had her legs up around his shoulders, pulling him down with her weight, using gravity as a tool. They both went down. He didn’t let go of her. He only let go of the gun and it clattered away while she fought him off, her forearm hitting his throat as she moved her free hand up to find the gun on the floor. Despite all the training in the world, Illya was bigger, stronger -- and had years of experience over her. He simply took hold of both of her wrists and pinned her down to the carpet. She jerked her head up and over, then caught sight of the dead man in her living room and ceased all her movements. 

“Gaby,” his voice was close, warm breath ghosting over her cheek. She wasn’t able to pull her gaze away from the dead man. His eyes were already glassy and faded. She swallowed hard, “He was aiming at you.” 

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. She nodded against the floor, tearing her gaze away from the dead agent, “I know him.”

“Gaby, he was aiming at you.”

“Your chip is dying,” She looked up at Illya, her nose millimeters from his own. Her voice didn’t waver, her pupils didn’t contract. She was telling him the truth, her fingers limp under the pressure he pressed on her wrists, holding her down on the ground, “Your chip is dying and they’re scared.”

Illya’s brows pulled together in a sort of crease, “My chip is dying?” 

“You’re remembering everything they wiped. All the trauma, all the people you killed.” Her voice is almost lifeless, she’s beyond scared, beyond fighting. He wants to shake her, make her hurry her words along, “Illya, they sent me to cut the transmission, I should have known.” 

“Should have known what?” Napoleon spoke up now. He had Gaby’s forgotten gun in his hand. He had been the one to shoot the agent in the doorway. She had almost forgotten he was in the room. Gaby didn’t look away from Illya as she spoke once more.

“That the whole mission would be terminated.” 

Napoleon nodded, “In other words, we all are in trouble.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t leave you here.” Illya presses onto her wrists hard, she knows good and well that there will be bruises when he lets up. 

“You should,” She swallows down any pleading motion for him to protect her. She can protect herself, she can shoot, she can fight, she can take on Waverly herself. A soft nod of her head and she leans up, lips close to his own. He lowers his lashes, “But your mother’s ring is in my car.” 

His blue eyes snap open and he nods to her before glancing up at Napoleon who nods, “I’m not giving her the gun back.” 

 

“Would not dream of asking you to Cowboy.”

\-------------

Illya has more guns in the house, but it turns out so does Gaby. When Illya finally lets her up, she goes for a few drawers in the kitchen, lifting up false bottoms and pulling out multiple firearms before going to the laundry room and taking down a box behind the fabric softener. Inside was a couple of burner phones and another passport. She tucked the passport in her back pocket and ignored Illya’s stare when she gave Napoleon and him both a spare burner phone.

“The numbers are all pre-programmed. There are at least a dozen other agents out there on the task force. I don’t know how many are after us…” She pauses and looks up at the two of them, “I mean you.”

Illya doesn’t correct her and she wonders if he thinks it’s better off this way. 

Napoleon clears his throat and interrupts the two of them, “This is a great plan and all, but we’re still chipped.” 

Gaby frowns, “Yes but, Illya’s is failing.”

“Mine isn’t.” Solo gets closer to her face, he invades her personal space trying to push his point across and she nods backing up from him a bit, pressing her back close to the wall of the laundry room.

“It will be bloody.” She tells him and Napoleon glances up at Illya, the two share a private conversation without even opening their mouths before Illya nods to Gaby. 

“You will get it out of him, I will watch.” 

She has no choice. They end up in the kitchen. There are rags everywhere and blood dribbles onto the island as Solo hisses. Gaby digs the paring knife a little deeper into his bicep. She is trying to be careful, but he keeps tensing. Illya finally holds him still and she strikes metal. Her face is pale as she pushes a finger in the wound and pulls out the device. Gaby may be fine under the hood of a car, but people are not cars. It’s not motor oil on her fingers, it’s warm sticky blood and she feels queasy. Illya wraps the wound while she washes up.

The water in the sink is a pink color, swirling endlessly down the drain and Gaby leans over the edge of the sink, wondering what it would be like to vanish like the blood. There’s the warm hand on the back of her neck and she closes her eyes slowly, relishing in the feel of his familiar touch. She opens her mouth to tell him to go, but his grip tightens and he pulls her away from the sink, just in time for the glass over the sink to shatter. A bullet whizzes through the kitchen and embeds itself in the fridge. Illya pulls her down, tucks her into his chest out of sheer habit as Solo aims his good arm up and fires back out the window two times with Gaby’s gun.

“I like this one,” He heaves it in his palm, weighing it for a moment before aiming again as the three of them back out of the kitchen with hurried steps. More gunshots follow, the house is under attack. Illya sweeps Gaby’s legs down and pushes her onto the hardwood floor as machine gun fire rips through the drywall. 

She panics against the floor, losing herself in the drowning sound of gunfire. Her hands twitch and Illya presses her harder into the ground as the house around her is destroyed. Pieces of wood splinter off and scatter, the photo frames on the mantle are destroyed. She closes her eyes, trying to remember what photos sat there moments ago and then it’s over. Illya is pulling on her. Napoleon grabs onto her arm and yanks her towards the hallway. The three of them are running for the back door, squishing themselves into the hall, bumping shoulders before Illya reaches the door first. He looks to Solo and opens it. They move like military men, measured steps and even breathing.

Napoleon leaves first, guns drawn. If his arm hurts, he powers through it just like any good soldier would. He fires a few times over the hedges before waving the two of them out of the house. Illya pushes Gaby out first and follows suit. The three of them jump the fence. Gaby’s body isn’t used to the physical strain, her muscles are weaker, knees knocking together as she hits the sidewalk on the other side. She’s covered in blood, sweat, and dirt. Her mind is a mess and Illya is there, pulling her along to the silver car she parked up the street. 

She goes for the driver’s side but Illya puts her in the backseat and rounds the front of the car. Solo takes passenger and Gaby reaches down to the floor under the driver’s seat, fingers finding the small pearl ring she dropped earlier. Illya slips into the driver’s seat and pushes his spare key into the ignition. He doesn’t look back at the broken town home, he does glance in the mirror, catching her face holding his mother’s ring and his grip on the steering wheel tightens.

“You still need to answer things,” Illya grounds out hitting the locks on the doors as if she couldn’t escape if she wanted. Her fingers open and she lets the ring fall into her palm. 

“What would you like to know?” She stares down at the ring in her palm, moving her thumb over the piece of jewelry. 

“Is your name Gaby?” He pulls away from the curb and accelerates away from the memory of the two of them. He tries to pay attention to the road but it’s hard when she looks up from the ring and meets his gaze in the mirror. There are dark circles starting under her eyes and he fights off every instinct to comfort her. 

Silence ticks by, he rolls to a stop at a red light and Gaby nods. 

“My name is Gabriella,” She speaks quietly, her voice is raw from all the screaming. Terror has broken down her defenses, “Gabriella Teller is my given name. I was adopted when I was eight, by a mechanic. I became Gabriella Schmidt for a time before I met you of course.” 

“Why did you change your name back to Teller?” 

“Because Gabriella Schmidt is someone you would never look at. So, I became Gaby Teller. The engineer of your dreams.” He tears his gaze away from hers in the mirror focusing back on the road. He’s speeding and in no particular direction. He doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t know what to feel. Solo blows out a soft sigh and sinks down into his seat as if he can avoid the confrontation all together. Gaby squeezes her hand tight, the little ring biting into her flesh, “We can’t go back to my flat. Waverly will be waiting for that.” 

“Waverly,” Napoleon says the name carefully glancing over to Illya before looking back out the window, “Doesn’t sound friendly.” 

“You wouldn’t be friendly either if your Agent just destroyed a multi-million dollar military contract.” Gaby crosses her arms over her ruined clothes, impressed by her ability to still keep her head up. Everything is wrong, the world is off kilter and yet, Illya hasn’t shot her yet. She counts it at as a victory. 

“We get hotel room. Then we plan.” 

They ditch the car four miles away from the house. Napoleon holds a gun to Gaby’s back while she steals their next ride. She tries not to take it personally, but it’s hard when Illya won’t meet her gaze. She hot-wires the old mini van and they take off for the edge of the city. They manage to find a hotel willing to take cash. Illya goes inside, Gaby is too risky and Napoleon is still covered in his own blood.

\-------------

The death toll on his tablet is rapidly reaching the double digits. The American’s pin on the map has vanished. Officer Kuryakin’s signal is bleak, slowly fading away. A team is sent into the destroyed townhouse, they report no signs of a deceased woman. Waverly’s fingers clench shut into a tight fist. His teeth grind together and he’s fighting off the urge to storm into the control room to announce war on his own agent. She’s gone rogue and there are procedures for such things. He orders her termination, a team of six goes out. He gets a vest and a gun, pulling his tablet up from his desk and taking it with him into the field.

\-------------

Gaby sits in the hotel tub. The water is up to her knees, scalding hot. She’s got her bruised wrists locked around her legs and she presses her cheek to the tops of her legs. Her hair is damp along her shoulders, eyes closed.

Napoleon is on the edge of the second bed, arm held out, testing the range of motion he has with it. Both of his guns are on the bed next to him, the air conditioner kicks on and he jumps for a moment at the sudden noise. Then shakes his head, clearing his thoughts out as he glances to Illya who’s leaning close to the bathroom door, golden head cast down, “It’s going to be nice you know.” Solo pipes up and Illya turns his head up curiously.

“Nice? What could be nice about this?” Illya gestures to the closed bathroom door shaking his head.

“I meant it will be nice to remember, to dream.” 

Illya stared at Solo for a moment, waiting for something to break the silence. Nothing did, Gaby moved in the tub, he could hear the water sloshing around. 

“You will like it, I hope.” Illya finally answered and Solo smiled at him before nodding to the door.

“What are you going to do with her?” 

It’s a loaded question. His mother’s ring is in his pocket now, weighing him down. He swears it’s the only thing holding him down to the Earth since Gaby is not his. Gaby is a fabrication of his desires, all done up in a pretty package. It feels like a knife in his chest every time he glances her way, catches her gaze and he forces himself to look away. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants, he toyed with the ring and shrugged, “We could leave here.” 

Gaby leaned on the edge of the tub, pulling herself out of it. Water pooled at her feet and she reached for a towel. She wrapped the scratchy fabric around her, stepping closer to the door, listening to the voices on the other side. Illya suggested leaving her and she squared her shoulders to yank the door open but something stopped her.

“We can’t do that. You and I both know you can’t do that.” The ever charming American is trying to fool Illya. She wants to shut him up, she wants him to stop trying. Napoleon doesn’t even know her, he is just trying to fix something he has no idea is beyond repair.

Her fingers hovered close to the handle, shaking. She glanced up to the mirror, it was too fogged up for her to see her sad reflection. 

“You say that but you do not know.” He hissed out the words all while squeezing the dark pearl ring in his pocket, “She wore my mother’s ring. She lied. She is a lie. We will leave her.” 

Gaby opens the door and steam billows out behind her. She steps into the room, turning her head up to Illya who looks shocked to see her standing, “No, we’re going to get Waverly.”

\-------------

After nearly an hour of arguing, Gaby has Illya against the bathroom sink. She’s pushed into him, knife in hand, digging out his own chip. Illya grits his teeth and curses in Russian. She likes the sound of his native language on his tongue. It’s harsh and welcoming as she picks out the piece of technology. It clatters to the sink along with the knife. She pulls her fingers away from his arm and picks up the chip.

“This will bring them to us.” She holds the bloody piece of up in between her fingers and Illya shrugs his shoulders, rotating his injured arm as if to see if she damaged him. 

“I thought you said it was dying.” He watches her as she moves around him, avoiding his gaze all together as she rinses her fingers off. 

“Dying doesn’t mean dead,” She answers him quietly. “It still sending a beacon, just very weak. It’s still enough to bring them where we want them.” 

He nods to her, proud of her quick thinking. He doesn’t say anything though, he lets her bandage him up and he lets her leave him behind in the bathroom. Illya stands there, bracing himself against the sink, he ignores the dull throbbing in his bicep and watches the mirror, watches himself fall apart in a desperate attempt to hold the pieces together. His world is upside down and he’s drowning in lies. An argument sparks outside of the bathroom and he groans listening as Napoleon and Gaby begin to bicker again. 

They can’t stay at the hotel any longer. It’s not safe, there are too many variables. Too many people are close, too many innocent people in surrounding rooms. Gaby offers the townhouse, it’s already been ruined, gutted with bullet holes but Illya shakes his head as they climb into a newly stolen vehicle. The three of them end up in Gaby’s old flat. She comments on the state of her furniture, but stops when she looks down at the broken frame on the table, their picture missing. Her heart skips a beat when the bullet enters her left shoulder. 

 

Illya shouts her name. The force of the bullet knocks her down, her blood spills across the tacky photo frame and she lands on the plush carpet with an exaggerated gasp pulling at her lungs. The door is swarmed, men in black stomp into the flat, the windows break and chaos ensues. There’s gunfire and broken glass, shouting is heard. Gaby rolls onto her back, pain in her shoulder keeping her pinned to the ground. She sees Solo go by the edge of her vision, he’s holding two guns, firing in perfect precision. His neat hair is a wreck, there’s sweat on his brow and she wants to call out his name. She can’t seem to find her voice though, she doesn’t get the chance to warn him when an agent collides with his side and knocks a gun out of his hand. The two grapple out of her line of sight and Gaby reaches over her chest, pressing her palm against her shoulder. The pressure leads to an explosion of stars behind her eyes, pain radiates around her and she shouts, trying to catch her breath. 

There’s a dull roaring in her ears but she can make out Illya’s voice, the soft sound of her name falling from his lips. He steps into her line of sight and then charges away from her. A window breaks and she shudders against the carpet, black dots swim before her eyes. 

Illya comes back into her line of sight and she moves her hand up, it falls. She can’t reach him. She can barely breathe, this must be how he felt while in the program, controlled by a chip. She sucks in another breath, it’s like breathing in water. Her fingers fall to the ground, finding the edge of the gun Solo dropped. She pulls the familiar firearm into her palm, squeezing it tightly as Illya kneels over her. His golden hair is matted down to his forehead, his face has blood on it, his nose looks broken and bruised. There’s a cut on his cheek, but most of all he looks worried. He is worrying over her, kneeling next to her and petting her forehead with his cool palm. 

“Gaby,” He breathes out her name and she can barely hear him. He moves his palm from her forehead to her shoulder and presses down on the wound, “Gaby keep your eyes open.” 

It’s an order.

She struggles to keep her eyes open, struggles to form words as a form lingers over Illya. The familiar face of Alexander Waverly swims into her vision and she moves her hand up shaking. Illya pulls back from her and she fires into the man behind him. The gun recoils in her hand, falls to the ground. Illya shouts something in Russian and the world around her goes black, pitch black.

\-------------

Two years pass and Gaby’s shoulder still twinges in pain when she leans low into the hood of a car. The sound of the engine humming next to her is music to her ears, it’s running efficiently thanks to her talented fingers. She reaches up and pulls the hood down, closing it firmly before smacking the top of it with dirty fingers, “It’s good to go!” She holds her thumbs up to the man behind the counter on the other side of the garage.

She reaches down and pulls the rag out of her dirty coveralls, wiping the sweat away from her brow. Gaby smears oil further across her forehead but she doesn’t seem to care as she moves across the small establishment. The clock on the wall reads close to six and she can’t wait to get home and into the shower, the need to rest is overwhelming, her bones are tired and her old wound throbs. She tries not to think of the wound though as the shop bell dings and another car pulls in.

“Oh come on!” Gaby shouts to the attendees by the counter, “It’s almost closing time guys.” The older man behind the counter shakes his head, shouting something of a cash paying customer. She rolls her brown eyes and moves forward into the garage, waving a hand up to pull the car closer to keep them easing inside to the lift. The car is brand new with deep dark tinted windows and she wants to take it for a test ride. The wheels get to the edge of the lift and she holds her palm out in a stopping motion.

“Stop, turn off the car and give me those keys. You shouldn’t be driving this thing anyways.” She winks at the dark tinted windows and moves for the hood. The driver’s side of the car opens up and out steps an old friend. 

Napoleon dangles the keys on the end of his fingers, his black hair is perfectly combed back and his blue eyes are sparkling, “Well, well, well…” He muses and she stops moving entirely. The old wound on her shoulder throbs and she pushes the feeling away.

“What can I do for you?” She drops the hood back down, not quite looking at the car, not caring if it’s broken or not. The American moves around the car with a slightly exaggerated motion and digs in his pocket for a moment. Gaby tenses, wondering if he’s going to pull a gun on her. The last she saw him was two years ago, fighting for his life in her old flat. After that she hadn’t seen him or Illya. She had seen Illya of course, in the hospital for just a moment. He had sat next to her bed the first night she woke up after they had pulled the bullet from her shoulder. The next time she woke up, there was no one there. 

Napoleon pauses his movements for a moment and then he pulls out an envelope passing it to her, not quite letting it go just yet, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“You haven’t looked hard enough.” She bites back at him with a snap of her lips. 

“Easy,” He lets go of the envelope, letting her snatch it up. “I’m going on a business trip to buy a new car. I need an expert.”

Gaby opens the envelope and a ticket slips out into her palm. It’s an airline ticket, round trip, fully paid first class to Rome. The trip is only for a weekend and when she narrows her gaze at him, he promises to pay her for her services. She packs a bag that night after a shower. She scrubs at her hands relentlessly but the grease never really fades away. She still looks like a garage rat when she makes it to the airport, dirty jeans and an old button up shirt with a low ponytail, she looks out of place in first class. 

She looks lonely too because Solo doesn’t show up. Instead of lingering on the American, she reaches for the sky magazine in the chair in front of her, flipping through it while the stewardess gets her a drink, vodka on the rocks. A soft sound draws her attention out of the magazine and the seat next to her is taken by a very tall man with blonde hair and bright eyes. He’s something out of her dreams, something plucked fresh from her memories.

He’s staring at her like she’s a ghost. His face loses it’s color and he opens his mouth as if to apologize, “I should not be here,” he says softly and goes to move out of his seat. Only the woman in blue, holding Gaby’s drink tells him it’s time to sit, that the plane is leaving.

Gaby’s heart is somewhere in her throat, her old wound throbs and she looks at his left hand. There’s no ring there anymore and he looks just as nervous as she feels. Finally she puts the magazine down in her lap and turns to face him holding out her hand.

“I’m Gaby Schmidt. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S DONE. I'm done. These two are my life and I enjoy the suffering. Thanks for suffering with me.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I saw that trailer for the movie "Mine" and it sort of spawned the idea for this and not to mention I've been reading a ton of psychological thriller books lately, so thats how this spawned. All I demand in return for this is fic graphics, tons of them. All the AUs please. Thank you to everyone who has supported all of my writing and sent me prompts, I always accept them @tulipsohhare


End file.
